


Begin Again

by sinuous_curve



Category: Inception (2010), Iron Man (Movies), The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Community: avengerkink, Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-16
Updated: 2012-05-16
Packaged: 2017-11-05 11:25:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/405869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinuous_curve/pseuds/sinuous_curve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Tony Stark makes his entrance like a conquering god, and Saito watches him from the bar with a drink in his hand, bemused by the unnecessary, calculated ostentation. </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Begin Again

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the kinkmeme prompt: _They meet at a fundraiser/business function/whatever, flirting and sexual tension happens, which then leads to hot sex. Or bizarre courting where they buy each other ridiculously expensive things and have loads of innuendo-fraught phonecalls which then leads to hot sex._
> 
>  
> 
> _Or, you know, just anything with these two. I'm really not that picky._

Tony Stark makes his entrance like a conquering god, and Saito watches him from the bar with a drink in his hand, bemused by the unnecessary, calculated ostentation. 

In this brave, new, global world they live in, it is highly inevitable that they will cross paths; though Stark is of the new breed, always seeking a more technological future to first power and then destroy. Saito is aware that he is of the old guard, considered somewhat staid in the best case scenarios and, however inaccurate, actively opposed to progress by his more virulent detractors. 

Of course, with Robert Fischer dismantling his father’s empire, the game has very suddenly changed. Saito smiles as he sips; people are impressed at how well he has weathered such an unexpected storm. 

Stark circles the room like a politician, shaking hands and kissing cheeks. He is charming, Saito can give him that much. Of course, Saito also remembers the little boy who first appeared after Howard Stark’s death, wearing suits that did not sit well on his young, brash shoulders and staring down the barrels of a thousand guns aimed at a perceived target on his chest. How the years have changed him, and done well by him. 

It is only once the ripples of his presence have faded in the room that he comes up the bar, and orders a scotch on the rocks with a wink for the very pretty bartender. Saito feels Stark’s eyes flick over his skin. So quietly desperate for attention, Tony Stark, and always craving more. 

The bartender sets his drink down on a napkin and Stark knocks back half of it, in the first gesture that has not seemed wholly calculated since he arrived. “How’s business?” he asks casually. As though they are not so often pitted as opposing forces reaching around the globe with fists raised. 

“It is good,” Saito says, turning and setting his empty tumbler on the bar. “How is yours?” 

Stark smirks and finishes off his drink. “Peachy. We’re unveiling a new missile next month.” 

“Congratulations.”

Saito knew Howard Stark at the end of his life, when he was a scarred battleship of a man who could not easily smile as he tallied the debts in his ledger and considered his legacy. Of course, Saito was himself then a young man who thought in terms of what others could see. Now he lives understanding that his greatest accomplishment will never be known except by a few people who live beneath the world. 

He thinks, perhaps, Tony Stark sees a little of his father when he looks at Saito and that is why he seeks to impress him. 

Stark signals for another drink. “What about you?” he asks as the bartender pours, leaning against the bar. Saito looks at him, his very expensive suit and sunglasses slid down purposefully on the end of his nose. He seeks to be the “whiz kid” he was at seventeen when he took his degree, when he still believed with great childish enthusiasm that his father built wonderful machines all that, that blood and politics belonged to other men. Less honorable men. 

Saito shrugs. “Nothing so impressive, I think. We seek to survive.”

“Right.” Stark raises his glass. “To surviving.”

He wanders away after that and Saito is mindful enough of his own responsibility to do a few rounds of the other guests. The polite conversation is more tedious than it once was, when some part of him that has been an old man and delights in being young again wants to shock them all out of their complacency. Remind them that there is another way open, beyond polite talks, and what a world it is that they seek to ignore from fear. 

He watches Stark from the corner of his eye, playing much the same game with different pieces. And Stark watches him, of course, trading unacknowledged glances across a room. There is _something_ about Stark, despite the ridiculousness that he courts. His intelligence is fierce and sharp and very real, though deliberately hidden, Saito thinks, behind success. 

Charm is not only useful for convincing people to trust you. It is useful for convincing them to believe your lies. 

It is not quite late when Saito excuses himself, making a polite bow and explaining that he must return to Tokyo on the first flight and it would not do to lose a day to jetlag. The crowd is international enough to draw an understanding laugh, and it is only a few minutes more to exchange more personal goodbyes with those who warrant them. 

Gathering his coat, Saito thinks the odds are perhaps even whether Stark will follow him. 

He does not manage to reach the door before he hears, “Saito,” from behind him. 

Stark stands with one hand raised, stretched out as though they are the hero and heroine of an old movie and the next moment shall be a heartfelt speech about two ships passing in the night. Saito has little patience for those romantics, but he pauses regardless. “Yes?” 

“I--” Stark closes the few feet between them, adjusting his tie and keeping his gaze on Saito only with difficulty. “I just--”

The coming lie is so very obvious and Saito might be a young man again, but he is not a boy. He long ago left behind the need to play coy with his desires, at least when there are not prying eyes to see. Saito has lived and died and many things have gained complexity from that, but the parameters of desire, at least, have simplified. 

“If you want something from me,” he says, voice low. “You must only ask.”

Stark inhales and exhales, twisting his mouth into that predator smile Saito has seen before he swallows someone whole who has gotten in his way. There is a ruthlessness to America’s favorite reprobate that he hides very well. “I want--” he begins and then pauses and looks at Saito. “I want.” The statement made without the need for an end. 

There is a convenience to these gatherings being held most often in hotels, and Saito turns toward the elevators expecting Stark will follow. And he does, of course, a step behind Saito as he smooths his suit. Saito pushes the button and almost immediately one of the doors slides smoothly open and they board. His suite is on the top floor and it seems, from the way Stark taps his foot, that he finds the ride interminably long.

Saito leads Stark down the hallway to his rooms, trying not to smile at the nearness of Tony Stark on his shoulder. He is so eager, and afraid. At war with himself, Saito thinks as he opens the door, between what he believes he should be and what he desires. 

He has no expectation of being wooed and charmed like the very pretty women Tony Stark changes as often as he changes a tie, and so it is not a surprise that Stark takes Saito’s lapels in hand as soon as the door clicks shut and kisses him. It is desperation and desire that Saito likes the taste of, and meets with his own surety of what will happen. He puts his hand to the small of Stark’s back and pushes his hips forward. 

And still, Saito accepts this is how they will pass this night, but he will not allow a sloppy coupling to be easily discarded in the morning. It is a question of how much courage it took for Stark to follow him from that room. Saito will not reward him for honesty, but he can appreciate the many things they are both expected to be. When their first ignominious kiss ends, Saito releases Stark and steps back. 

“When do you go home, Mr. Stark?” Saito asks, removing his jacket and tie, undoing the top bottom of his shirt and rolling up his sleeves.

Stark rubs his palms on his thighs. “Tomorrow,” he says. “And it’s Tony. You can call me Tony.”

“Tony.” Saito sits in a large, leather chair by the window, leaving enough room between his legs for intention, he hopes, to be obvious. “Then we have until morning.”

The obvious question Saito considers as Tony removes his own jacket and tie, and after a moment’s pause, shirt, is how many times in his life he has possibly willingly gone to his knees. Saito is not such a voyeur that he reads the lurid first hand accounts of Stark -- Tony’s -- conquests the way other do, but it is impossible for some sense of them not to seep into knowing. He is apparently a brash, wild lover, which Saito believes is a very polite way of saying selfish. He is not surprised that Tony Stark would be selfish. 

There is a lack of grace in the way Tony comes to his knees in front of Saito. He licks his lips and looks around the suite as though they will discuss the furnishings and window treatments when they have finished. Perhaps they will, though Saito predicts Tony is not one to linger. 

On a whim he cannot quite quantify, Saito pushes his fingers through Tony’s hair. Tony’s eyes slip shut and yes, it makes more sense. Not starved for touch, but starved for affection. Saito smiles. “What do you want?”

It is again not surprising that Tony does not speak, but act. 

He slides his hands up Saito’s thighs and very lightly brushes the tips of his fingers over the buckle of his belt. Tony looks up, then, with his mouth twisted into a crooked smile. “May I?” he asks, with a harder version of the charm that draws admirers toward him like suicidal moths to flame. Saito nods his head in acquiescence and Tony undoes his belt. 

The hands of a man who builds missiles and bombs are of necessity adept, and precise. With great care, Tony undoes the fastening of Saito’s trousers and pulls them down enough to maneuver. He bends his head with better grace than his knees and mouths at Saito’s cock through the fabric of his underwear. His breath is warm and damp and Saito sighs appreciatively, keeping his fingers in Tony’s hair. 

There is a moment where Tony stops, head bent with his palm against Saito’s cock. Saito does not pretend to understand what things exist beneath the currents of Tony’s skin. He smooths his palm over Tony’s skull, to soothe. He might laugh on his exhaled breath, but Tony does not raise his eyes. 

Tony pulls Saito’s cock out and without preamble kisses the head.

“Yes,” Saito sighs softly. 

Tony’s mouth is perhaps not as clever as he believes it to be; his insults and witticisms are such that they bite and sting, and draw the laugh. And still, he swallows Saito down with a hand wrapped around the base of his cock. There is a lack of finesse; he has not done this often. Still, there is something deeply felt and Saito appreciates that. 

Saito tightens his fingers in Tony’s hair and pushes his head down, until he hears the soft noise Tony makes in the very back of his throat. His free hand curls around Saito’s hips and digs in. 

His earth does not shatter from the orgasm he has, but it is good nonetheless. He pulls Tony’s head back at the last moments and spills himself across Tony’s cheeks and chin, looking into his eyes that burn with something that Saito is drawn to, and amused by. He curls his hand around Tony’s chin and swipes his thumb across Tony’s bottom lip. 

“Was that what you wanted?” Saito asks. 

Tony cocks his head. “It was a start.”


End file.
